


Dean Winchester, Codename: Duchess

by Baibaba



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 23:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baibaba/pseuds/Baibaba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets a job at the CIA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean Winchester, Codename: Duchess

Dean was twelve years old when he built a rocket out of an old Chevy muffler and used spare gasoline from the trunk of the ’67 Impala for fuel. The rocket didn’t go into orbit. She went a few miles and narrowly missed an Alaskan Airlines airplane, but it didn’t go into orbit like Dean had hoped.

The authorities had knocked on the Winchester’s front door forty-five minutes after the rocket had gone up and exploded into little bits in a free fall. It was the fastest he had ever seen the police react, except they were the ‘FBI’ and not the local deputies of Lawrence, Kansas. His Dad had yelled louder than the time Dean had accidentally left the stove on overnight. Sam had cried like the seven year old he was. His little brother clinging to his pant’s leg in a desperate attempt to keep the fuzz from taking him away.

He wasn’t arrested.

The ‘FBI’ tech guy, Bobby Singer, had been stumped as to how Dean had built the supped-up rocket. Had knelt down to look him right in the eye and had showed Dean a piece of the debris and had asked him ‘How?’Dean had tried to explain that she wasn’t done yet, that the rocket was supposed to stay in the sky and not come back down, that until she was done he would be keeping his mouth shut.

On the day of his eighteenth birthday Dean was taken off the FBI’s watch list and given a job at the CIA.

 

* * *

 

James Bond was the epitome for spies and with this thought in mind Dean had assumed that reality would be very much like the movies. Slicked back hair, smoking like a chimney, the sex appeal of an Adonis, and the ability to be in perpetual action-mode.

Castiel was the first spy he met on his first day at the CIA headquarters in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Castiel was anything but James Bond.

The spy was awkward and stared at Dean like he held the answers to why the world did what it did. His suit was shabby and loose on his slight frame. His blue tie skewed to the left and Dean’s fingers twitched to straighten the thing.

Their handshake had been brief and their meeting only lasted for a minute and a half when Castiel was handed a black envelope by a man in a much less shabby suit.

It was obviously an assignment and Dean couldn’t help but stare and wish he could open and see what this not-his-ideal spy would be doing. If there would be grappling hooks and poker games involved. If a woman painted in gold would be making an appearance.

Castiel caught him looking before saying, “There is much to be done, Dean Winchester.”

 

* * *

  

When Dean had moved from Lawrence to Sioux Falls he brought Sam with him. They shared a one bedroom apartment in a complex that was two streets from a college with Dean on the pullout couch and Sam in the small room with a Queen size mattress on the floor.

There was an argument on who would sleep where with Sam trying to be an adult and push for Dean to take the bedroom. Dean had told him to shut up and get his ‘freakishly-giant’ body into the room and make it his own.

The pullout couch was floral and came with the apartment. It smelled like Febreeze and there was a coil digging its way into his hip. The ceiling had a large crack and Dean had spent his time before falling asleep in this new place tracing the black line again and again. He’d need to buy Spackle and it was a great feeling to finally have that option to actually purchase something. He was thankful for the small things.

 

* * *

 

The guidelines for Dean’s job as the tech guy for the CIA is to make weapons and gadgets that can help agents in the field.

His job is open to interpretation. He was given a workbench with newly bought tools hanging on the walls, shiny and glimmering and just waiting to be used.

There is the added rule, a non-spoken but stapled to the wall on a piece of pristine what can only be high grade paper, to not explode anything in the building. It would bring attention to the base. The base is a Salvage Yard in the sticks with only back roads leading to the head quarters. Dean had to pinch himself when he saw all the junker cars and spare parts littering the area outside that were there only for the sake of disguise. The rusted metal and steel glimmered a pretty orange in the summer heat.

He ran a finger over the caked dirt on an old totaled Chevy. He circles it and sees the rusted muffler poking out from beneath the dead branches and brown leaves.

 

* * *

  

His time at the Salvage Yard is spent downstairs in the basement where the walls are titanium and don’t hold a candle to the old charm of the decrepit rooms upstairs where the walls are covered in pink striped wallpaper and the floor panels creek.

But downstairs with soundproof and very much fire proof walls he can do whatever he wants in his ‘office’ with the endless supply of steel and chemicals that are just down the hall in a storage closet that has been labeled jokingly by Ash as ‘Dean’s’. Which doesn’t stop him from spending hours sorting and memorizing all the material.

The first month is slow.

Dean doesn’t know what to assemble or make because there aren’t any requests for a certain weapon that can shoot acid bullets or cauterizing tool disguised as an American Express debit card. He doesn’t know what a real spy would need, what a real spy does on missions. Or even what those missions are.

He says this to Ash because the computer tech has been working for the CIA for five years.

“I hear Castiel is on his way back with the microchip, so you should ask him.”

 

* * *

  

Castiel is upstairs in the same suit and trench coat and looking as rumpled as ever. His hair is covered in dirt and dust and he looks like he’s about to fall over. The agent is standing in the hallway, waiting for Bobby.

Dean greets him with a grin and clamps a hand on his shoulder. Dust erupts from the impact and Castiel eyes his hand like it’s a new and exciting invention.

He wonders if the mess is from the wind outside or if Castiel has been in the desert catching a helicopter to make an escape with the microchip. He desperately wants to ask what the chip is for and has to bite his cheek for a moment to stop himself.

Letting his hand fall from the man’s shoulder, he watches as Castiel pulls a broken electric shortage trigger shaped like a black pen from inside his coat pocket.

“I broke this while I was away,” He says and holds the pieces out for Dean to take. Dean nods and slips the broken pen into his pocket.

“You got anywhere to be?”

Castiel looks confused and he squints, “No, why?”

Dean grins again and guides the man with a hand on the small of his back towards the staircase leading to the basement.

“You gotta tell me how you got so dirty then, I’m dyin’ to know.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel admits to Dean, leaning well into his personal space like what he’s going to say is hugely important and should be kept a secret, that he’s never been downstairs before.

“I’ve always dropped off the information that I’ve gathered to Robert and left. No one has ever invited me down here before you.”

Dean looks at him and sees only the curiosity that Castiel seems to emit like a five year old does when visiting an arcade that’s truly epic.

“Well, I guess it’s time for the five cent tour then.” He spends a good hour showing Castiel around the labyrinth that is the basement, pointing out the bathrooms introducing them as being ‘the cleanest urinals you will ever see’.

“The cleanest toilets I’ve ever seen were in a restaurant in Moscow. They were like mirrors.” Castiel says, a small tilt to his lips that tells Dean that he hasn’t come off as completely weird. That the cleanliness of bathrooms is a fine topic for conversation.

“I’ve never even been out of the states.” Dean says, leaning towards the agent. Castiel is tilting his head at him, stepping even closer.

“The Saban Theatre in Los Angeles has very hygienic restrooms.”

“Is bathroom spotting a hobby for you, Cas?”

“It’s informative and convenient to know where the cleanest place is to disinfect a wound I might incur. So, yes, it’s a very useful hobby.”

 

* * *

 

The secret base underneath the Salvage Yard is no different than any other work place when it gets involved in gossip. There's a break room a few hallways from Dean's workspace and it seems to be the hive where all the gossip is centered.

There's even a water cooler.

He hears a few things from Jo, an aspiring spy who can't seem to get passed the required tests because of her mother's influence. Jo seems to hang out mostly in the break room or the gym, training herself ragged.

Ash was apparently recruited when he was twelve after becoming emancipated from his parents. Bobby's wife of over twenty years ended up being a spy for the Russians. And most agents think Castiel is not in fact human. Castiel takes the most missions. Has the highest success rates. There's a betting pool that Castiel will grow stronger and enslave the human race.

"It's like he's a fucking robot." Jo says. "An alien or something. Definitely not human."

 

* * *

 

It becomes a routine having Castiel come downstairs to sit next to him on the spare stool. Dean tries to explain to him the mechanics of a gadget he’s working on or just asks about the mission Castiel has just returned from. He imagines gunfights and evil villains with an eye-patch and a German accent.

But the answers are vague and the important details are left out. Castiel goes on about the old woman he talked to while waiting for a bus or the family of twelve that pointed him in the right direction in Israel.

He comes around the Salvage Yard on his days off.

The missions are sporadic; sometimes Castiel will be gone for weeks and won’t get another assignment for just as long. Sometime he’ll be gone for just a few days and will get smaller assignments that have him coming and going every other day. But every time he visits he’s in his trench coat and his two-sizes too big suit.

James Bond looses his appeal when all Dean can picture is Castiel awkwardly trying to be suave in his rumpled suit.

Dean waves ‘see you later’ when he sees the agent leaving the Yard in his black Sudan.

 

* * *

 

Sam is seventeen and Dean is in the shower when he asks if he can intern at the Salvage Yard. The water is loud and Dean thinks he must have misheard him. He shuts the water off and wraps a towel around his waist to ask Sam to repeat what he just said.

“I mean, it would look good on a college application. It would look really, really great interning at the CIA. That’s, like, a wet dream for Ivy League schools.” Sam says.

Since he was a kid, Sam has been talking about going to college. Except that was mainly when they were still living with John. It had sounded more like an escape plan than anything else. He’s been saving for a day like this. The money in his savings account should be enough for a few semesters if they eat beans and rice for a few months.

“Of course you want to go to some pansy-ass college.” Dean cinches his towel up higher, “I’ll talk to Bobby, see what he can do. Hell, maybe you can be my bitch-boy around the office.”

Sam makes a disgusted face, “You are so classy.”

“That doesn’t sound like ass kissing does it, Sammy?”

“I’d rather you be wearing pants when that happens.”

 

* * *

  

Dean gets a letter one day in October from John. He doesn't open it for a few days. He leaves it under his seat in the Impala. He thinks about it when he's trying to get wires to connect. He thinks about it when he's cooking for Sam. He thinks about it even when Castiel is telling him about a Russian couple that tried to get him drunk off an endless string of vodka shots. He doesn't tell Sam.

It's short and curt, and Dean can clearly hear John's deep grumbling voice.

John is getting help, which is good. There's an address where he is. There's a phone number, but John tells Dean that he doesn't have to call, he just wanted his sons to know where he is.

Dean is very tempted to give John a call then. He puts the letter on the old fridge in the apartment and leaves the decision up to Sam.

 

* * *

 

Castiel has a split lip and a broken nose. He looks terrible and Dean has to remember that Castiel can handle himself. That he's not Sam and he doesn't need Dean's particular brand of protection. That doesn't stop Dean from handing Castiel an ice pack from the break room and asking for names.

"That's very," a pause, "nice of you?" Castiel says, his voice muffled by the big blue package covering his face. "But I'm fine. This is nothing serious."

"Dude, you got a broken nose and your lip is the size of a volleyball."

Castiel pokes at his lip and blood trickles down his chin. "If you're going to exaggerate, at least do it realistically. I've had worse."

Dean scratches at his head. "Doesn't mean that I have to like it."

Castiel sighs and the ice pack is left on the table. He places a hand on Dean’s knee and Dean tries to feel uncomfortable. “I get hurt, that's just part of it. Sometimes I get shot and sometimes I get stabbed. Getting punched in the face is not nearly as awful.”

And again, Dean has to remember that Castiel is in the business of getting hurt.

 

* * *

 

It's in the afternoon, right after a lunch involving tacos that may or may not have gone bad, when Sam manages to hack into the CIA database. No alarm goes off. Nothing really happens.

Ash is laughing behind Sam, watching him work through the firewalls the government has set up. Dean tries not to think that he might get fired and Sam might get thrown into some hole for the rest of his life.

Sam looks at Dean then, there's a little twinkle in his eye that makes Dean want to get as far away from Sam as possible, it never leads to anything good.

"I found Cas' file."

And Dean is more than tempted. Really. He has to hold on to his knees tightly and not move an inch. "Shut that off before you get us both waterboarded, Sam."

 

* * *

 

Bobby tells Dean that if Castiel is smart, he’ll take the arsenic that he keeps in his molar.

Dean is out of the office and down the staircase leading to the basement in seconds. He grabs what he thinks might be helpful. Guns, mainly. Boxes and boxes of ammo are stuffed into his duffle. He shoves the BETA versions of some new tech he’s made roughly alongside the semi-automatics. They could be useful.

For a moment he’s thankful to his drunk of a father for teaching him to shoot.

Sam is already sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala. Dean doesn’t tell him that he can’t go, that he’ll get hurt—maybe killed. Sam is smart and he already knows that and Dean hates that he knows that.

“You know where we’re going?” He starts the ignition, his baby roars.

“Idaho.” Sam has his laptop propped open, “Cas’ mission is in freaking Boise, Idaho.”

 

* * *

 

He’ll admit that since he’s started working for the CIA he has been fantasizing about what it would be like to be a spy. How he would charm the information out of women who he knows are going to back stab him. How he would confront his arch nemesis that has a habit of sitting in a leather armchair, never being able to catch him—always watching his back.

He’d have a code name too. Something cool, like James Bond.

He wonders what Castiel’s real name is.

He hopes it’s not something as lame as Bob.

“You sure about this, Dean?” Sam is crouching next to him, hiding behind rotten wooden crates. They’re behind an airplane hanger. There’s a man in jeans and flannel standing twenty feet from them with an earpiece in his right ear. It’s a design that Dean recognizes as his.

“We’re already here, aren’t we?” Dean cocks his gun, just in case. Sam nods, cradling the taser gun in both of his hands. Dean clamps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You’re gonna do great.”

“Hopefully.” Sam takes a deep breath and Dean suddenly wishes that he could be more optimistic.

“Just go up to him and tell him you’re lost and tase the bastard.” Sam gets up and hides the gun in his sleeve.

 

* * *

 

“I knew you wanted to be Batman, but seriously?” Sam is looking at him like he’s finally snapped. Dean grins and slaps a hand to Sam’s back. Fun could turn its head at any moment and Dean is currently staring straight in its face.

“I’ve always wanted to do this.” Dean takes aim and shoots the grappling hook towards the roof of the hanger. It takes a minute, Dean holding his breath, before the rope tenses.

He looks to Sam and says, “Let’s go, Robin.”

 

* * *

 

The woman has short blonde hair and her white button-up shirt is covered in blood. She’s smirking. Sam is panting behind him, he has a nasty cut running down his bicep. Dean doesn’t think twice when he shoots her in the chest.

 

* * *

 

Castiel is chained to the wall in the back room. He’s a bloody mess and his shirt is torn open and in strips hanging from his beaten torso.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Castiel gasps out, looking wildly around the room. His eyes finally landing on Dean and staying there before he whispers, “You’re bleeding. Why are you bleeding? You shouldn’t be bleeding, Dean.”

He finds himself smiling despite having a bullet in his shoulder. Pulling a paper clip from his pocket, he starts to pick the locks on the cuffs. He winces at the bright red marks on Castiel’ wrist.

He frees one hand and runs his finger along the bruising on the bony, pale wrist.

“Why are you…?” Castiel starts and he looks confused and more hopeful than he should. He probably didn’t think anyone was going to come for him. That he was going to be left to bleed out alone in Idaho of all places. But Castiel is alive and glaring at him and Dean suddenly feels very tired.

“Sam’s getting the Impala.”

 

* * *

  

Dean wakes up in the hospital with a sleeping and drooling Sam in the chair next to him. He slides the IV from his forearm and pulls the wiring connected to his chest off. He asks the nurses for the room number of the man he came in with.

A petite brunette nurse tells him, “Oh, honey. He checked out two hours ago. You should go back to bed, you’re going to bleed to death at this rate.”

 

* * *

 

After a year of knowing the agent and befriending him, Dean doesn’t know where Castiel lives. He doesn’t know where he grew up or if he has siblings. He doesn’t even know his real name and it’s a bitter taste in his mouth. He has to call Bobby for the address and promise to work on the weekends for the next two months. But that’s fine because Dean has an apartment number written in sharpie on his hand.

He drops Sam off at their apartment and drives an hour east to a complex surrounded by Pine trees with a shared swimming pool that’s turned green. Castiel lives on the second floor in apartment 221B.

The agent is in grey sweats and an old Pink Floyd shirt that’s too big. It’s so different than the suit and coat that Dean feels his eyes dry up with all the staring he’s doing. All the moisture seems to go to his palms.

“Hey.” He pushes his way inside, careful to not touch Castiel’s chest. Shutting the door behind himself, Dean leans into Castiel’s space and feels the reassuring warmth of his body heat.

 

* * *

 

Castiel's apartment is, if anything, interesting. The living room is full of little trinkets that he collected from his missions. There's an entire wall of shot glasses lined up neatly. Dean desperately wants to see Castiel drunk.

They're on a big leather couch. The leather is soft and immediately makes Dean want to sleep for days.

“Tell me something,” He presses his lips below Castiel's ear, he keeps his voice low and quiet, but it rings out in the silent apartment. Castiel presses closer to Dean. “What’s your real name? And please don’t say ‘Bob’, I don’t think I can handle the disappointment.”

“Knowing your tastes in movies, Dean,” Castiel leans in close, “what I’m about to say is going to, as the regular humans put it, ‘make your week’.”

 

 

 


End file.
